


The World is Crueler Than we Thought

by revolutionaryfury



Series: The Lovely Misfits [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angry!Jehan, Character Development, F/M, Fights, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Multi, Musichetta is a queen, New York City, Older!Combeferre, Slow Build, Triggers, Young!Eponine, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras and Grantaire have a heart-to-heart, Eponine shouldn't be dating a twenty-four-year-old man, and Jehan finally realizes something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World is Crueler Than we Thought

Life wasn’t fun anymore. At first, it had been. But the times when Enjolras and Grantaire had ridden loose horses through Central Park and fooled people into thinking they were famous seemed so far away…it was almost as if they had never existed. Now every day was spent huddling in the stupid bus stop enclosure while the rain pounded on the curled glass roof, waiting for Jehan to stop screaming at Courfeyrac, or for Joly to stop stopping his panic attacks with drugs. That one was new. Feuilly’s shakes were worse than ever, and it got to the point where he all but vibrated when left alone. No one knew why he was shaking, but he just wouldn’t stop.

 

Life felt like hell.

 

Everyone fought, all the time. It never ended. Screaming and shouting and roaring. Sometimes Eponine, as tough as she was, would burst into tears, loud and hiccupy and dramatic, just sobbing and sobbing. This just pissed some of them off, but Combeferre would gently remind everyone: “She’s only sixteen. Remember that. She’s here, for God knows what reason. Let her be.”

 

There was only thing that seemed to be going slightly well. Musichetta had developed a thing for Joly, and when she found out that he was with Bossuet, she just decided that she liked him, too. Somehow the three of them were making it work.

 

So there was that. But God only knew how miserable everyone else was.

 

Enjolras sat on the small front porch of The Hollow – that overcrowded brownstone – looking into the slate-colored sky. It was not raining for once, but a sheen of gray clouds covered the Manhattan skyline. The sun tried fruitlessly to shine through a small break in the clouds, but it did nothing to warm the boy. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, a pair of headphones fitted over his frizzing hair.  
 _“The world is a harsh place; I’m told/by those outdated prophets of old. My friends are fixed on the small things/and I’m standing here alone. Who knew that some dirty bus stop could feel like home?”_ He was listening to the tracks on an old MP3 player that he’d found up in Combeferre’s attic, and instead of inspiring him, he just felt sort of depressed.

 

“No one ever said this life would be easy, Apollo,” the familiar voice of Grantaire said from behind him. Enjolras gave a wry smile and took the headphones off of his ears, resting them around his neck.

 

“Ah, R. You read my mind. I know it’s not supposed to be easy. But where is the adventure? I thought we were running out in some great beyond that would take us away from our trivial lives, but all I know is that everyone I love is miserable and there’s nothing I can do about it,” Enjolras countered. He patted the minimal space next to him and Grantaire sat down, his shoulder pressed into Enjolras’s. “Look at us, R. We’re living with a man who should be thinking about getting married, but is pining after a sophomore.”

 

Grantaire smiled, resting his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “’Ferre’s only twenty-four. He has plenty of time, you prude. And yeah, he’s a little old for Ep, but that’s not our problem. That belongs to them, not us.”

 

“Okay, then, fine. But what about the drug dealers and male prostitutes we live with?” Enjolras said grimly.

 

“You can’t reduce people to their labels. You don’t know why Jehan and Courf do what they do. Their lives were probably pretty shitty before this. They’re not just prostitutes; they’re our friends,” Grantaire sighed. “Yes, they’re prostitutes, but they’re people. People with hopes and dreams and…” He trailed off, sighing again. “Wow. Life really does suck, doesn’t it?”

 

“There’s the cynic I know and love,” Enjolras sighed in return. “R, what are we doing? We’re eighteen. We need to get back to school.”

 

“And then what? You graduate and go to Harvard or Yale or wherever and become Mr. Lawyer-Doctor-Politician and change the world? Marry the prettiest Democrat below 14th street? Raise a brood of little activists?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Sounds great, right, trust fund kid? And what’ll become of old R? Well, I’m surprised I even made it this far in school. I’ll graduate and get too drunk to show up to the ceremony. Won’t go to college. Won’t do anything productive! Ha!” He gave a sharp bark of laughter that startled Enjolras. “Well, well. I’ll probably be dead before I’m twenty.”

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said sharply. “That’s enough. If you want to get anything done, thinking like that will hinder it. And no, that’s not what I plan to do with my life.”

 

Grantaire just sat there sullenly, having retracted his arm from around Enjolras’s shoulders. It began to rain softly, the weak sun disappearing behind some clouds. “I never thought I would hate rain this much,” he said softly.

 

“That’s the thing,” Enjolras intoned, “you can’t think of it as rain.”

 

“The hell, Enjolras?” Grantaire snorted. “Rain is rain.”  
  


 

But it’s not, really. It’s something that brings nourishment to plants and trees and flowers. Gives animals something to drink.”

 

“Who are you, Jehan?” Grantaire scoffed. “Rain is rain.”

 

Enjolras shook his head. “Sometimes your constant pessimism gets quite tiring.” He got up and went back inside the brownstone.

XXX

Eponine, clad in purple striped stockings, a black miniskirt that looked as if it had been run through a shredder, and a bomber jacket, had barricaded herself in the wall again. She had put on the outfit to feel good about herself, but had just ended up looking like a hooker. And that made her think of Courfeyrac and Jehan, which upset her. And of course she started thinking of the rest of her friends, and how horribly messed up they were, which caused her even more grief. She’d crawled into the wall after she’d started hysterically sobbing in the living room of the Hollow. The others didn’t need her tears. She could tell they were getting tired of it already. Everyone except maybe Combeferre.

 

She wanted to be strong – she really did – but sometimes it was all too much.

 

A knock on the wall roused Eponine from her thoughts. “’Ponine?” a voice said softly. “May I come in?”

 

She moved one of the two boards she usually moved to get inside the wall aside, peeking out of it. Combeferre stood there, clad in khaki pants and a sweater vest. “You look like a nerd,” Eponine sniffled. She suddenly felt the urge to run her hands through his hair and maybe playfully steal his glasses. Flirty stuff like that.

 

Combeferre chuckled quietly. “May this nerd come in?” he asked again.

 

Eponine sighed. “There’s not much room,” she whispered, “and the floor is really dusty. If you move the wrong way, you’ll probably fall into the basement.”

 

“I’m not claustrophobic and I don’t mind the dust,” Combeferre countered from outside. “As for falling through to the basement, I’m willing to take the risk.” He wrenched the boards from the wall, scootching inside. He stooped over, replacing the boards to where they’d been. He looked around. “I can see why you like it in here. It’s cozy.” He sat down next to Eponine, his lanky legs drawn up to his chest. Their sides were pressed together.

 

Eponine blushed in the musty darkness.

 

“What’s troubling you?” Combeferre asked.  
“Sorry,” Eponine apologized quickly. “I’m so sorry I’m always crying like an idiot.” She felt the tears coming on again. Great.

 

Combeferre grabbed her hands and looked her in the eyes. “You don’t ever have to apologize for your emotions, Eponine. So don’t.”

 

She looked back at Combeferre, his beautiful melted chocolate eyes burning with intensity. _The fuck did I just think?_ she thought to herself. _Melted chocolate eyes? Burning with intensity? Am I twelve?_ “Okay,” she stammered out.

 

“Now, tell me what’s troubling you.” Something in his tone made her speak.

 

“It’s…a lot of stuff,” Eponine said slowly. “I’m…I’m worried about our friends. Jehan is always screaming at Courf, when Courf is just trying to be nice to him. And, God, I want them to stop being prostitutes. But I know you can’t support us all. It’s just…I wish we could find ways to get money without doing stuff like that.” She noticed Combeferre had only let go of one of her hands. The other hand was still tightly clutched in his.

 

“Anything else?” he asked, squeezing her hand.

 

“Joly,” Eponine sighed, glad to finally be able to say what was troubling her. “He’s sinking deeper and deeper into drugs, and Bossuet and Musichetta are just watching. That’s all they can do. It hurts my heart. Plus, seeing Bossuet and Joly selling those drugs upsets me. They sell them to anyone and everyone, even kids. They’re watching as they destroy people’s lives!” She pounded the dusty floor with a fist. “And another thing – Feuilly. His shakes are terrible, and we don’t even know what’s causing them. And – and Enj and R! They’re so in love and they can’t even tell!”

 

Combeferre chuckled. “So I’m not the only one who has picked up on that,” he smiled. “They’ll come around sooner or later.”

 

“I hope so,” Eponine said, smiling weakly. “The last thing that bothers me is...guilt. I ran away from home, but my siblings are still there. My sister is only fourteen, but she’s dating a guy who’s like…seventeen or nineteen or something. He’s trouble. He’s in my dad’s gang. And my brother is twelve, but he helps out with Dad’s gang, too. And I actually have two younger brothers who got adopted a few years ago. I don’t even know their names.” She sighed. “I left my siblings alone with my parents, and my parents are horrible people. But I just…I’ve been taking care of them since I can remember. I HAD to get away from it all.”

 

“What are their names?” Combeferre asked.

 

“Azelma and Gavroche Jondrette. The little boys I don’t remember, like I said.”

 

“What grades?”

 

“’Zelma just started her freshman year, and Gavroche is in seventh grade.”

 

“If we picked them up from school and brought them here right now, would your parents look for them?” Combeferre asked thoughtfully. Like, say we forged a paper or two and transferred their schools. They could live in the Hollow with me. We could sneak back into your parents’ house and grab their clothes and such tonight, and then we wouldn’t have to go back there.”

 

Eponine’s eyes lit up. “You…you’d do that?” she stammered.

 

Combeferre nodded. “Of course. They’re kids in distress.” He paused, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. “I know you don’t like to hear it, ‘Ponine, but you’re a kid in distress, too. You shouldn’t have to worry about all of this. You should be in school. Just…taking your classes and playing around. Going on dates. Finding the sixteen-year-old ‘love of your life’ and getting your heart broken. High school is a game.” He shook his head. “And you should be playing it. God, Eponine, I –” He broke off, looking pained.

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“I want to help you. I want to take care of you. But I’m – I’m falling in love with you. I've been falling in love with you since the day I met you. You’re too young, though. You’re just a kid.” Combeferre looked pained again. He let go of her hand and clenched a fist. “What am I even doing? Trying to win you over with saving your siblings?”

 

Eponine looked at Combeferre thoughtfully. “You’re in love with me?” she questioned. “Really? Not just – just…trying to hook up with me?”

 

“No, no. Of course not,” Combeferre exclaimed. “I would never – mmmph!” He was silenced by Eponine’s lips on his.

XXX

 

“STOP TRYING TO SAVE ME! I’M NOT SOME FUCKING FLOWER!” That was what Azelma and Gavroche first heard when they walked into the Hollow.

 

Azelma was carrying a stained white backpack on her back, a duffel bag, and a small gray kitten. Gavroche had on a backpack and had fashioned some sort of carrying case out of what appeared to be a sheet.

 

“What’s up?” the boy asked. His blonde hair was much too long, dirty and tangled. “What’s wrong?” He walked over to where Jehan was screaming at Courfeyrac in the living room and tugged on the little poet’s braid. “Why are you screaming at him?”

 

Jehan looked down at Gavroche, wrinkling his freckled nose. “And you are?” he asked rudely.

 

“I’m ‘Ponine’s little brother,” Gavroche said, unfazed. He jerked a thumb in the direction of Azelma. “She’s my other sister. ‘Ponine’s boyfriend said that we were gonna live here from now on, on account of our parents being dumbfucks.” He shrugged. “The boyfriend said it was a safe place.”

 

“Oh?” Jehan asked, raising an orange eyebrow.

 

“Uh-huh,” Gavroche nodded. “But then I walked in and heard cursing and screaming, and it sounded just like home. Look.” He pointed at Azelma again, who was being very quiet. Her light brown eyes were wide, and she looked like a deer in headlights. “You’re scaring my big sister.”

 

Courfeyrac’s shoulders slumped. “Well, little man,” he said with a weak smile. It was obvious he was still hurt from Jehan’s insult. “You’re an honest brat, aren’t you?”

 

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Gavroche answered.

 

“You’re a smart kid,” Courf grinned. “I’m Courfeyrac, or Courf.” He stuck out a hand, and Gavroche shook it.

 

“I’m Gavroche. That’s Azelma. The kitten’s name is Maxie. Nice to meetcha. And who’re you?” Gavroche said, looking to Jehan. “You look like a Brutus, I think. Like, tough.”

 

“I’m Jean,” Jehan answered stiffly.

 

“Or a Jean,” Gavroche corrected. “’Ponine’s boyfriend said we’d we staying in the attic. Where’s that?” At Jehan’s grumpy direction, Gavroche and Azelma crawled up to the attic, dragging their ratty bags and pulling up the ladder behind them.

 

“Great,” Jehan muttered. “Two more brats in the household. Is everyone in that family extremely annoying?”

 

“I liked him,” Courf mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“Of course you would,” Jehan sniffed.

 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw.

 

“What?” Jehan asked, irritated.

 

“You know, Jean…I’m done,” Courfeyrac spat. “I’m done with you, with your shitty little attitude, and with everything about you!” He grabbed Jehan by the wrists, getting up in the poet’s face. “All I ever try to do is be kind to you, and all you ever are is cruel to me! Is this because of what we do? You think I enjoy fucking random strangers? I don’t! It’s horrible! But at least I can put on a happy face. For the good of the rest of the people in this stupid house, and for my own good. At least I can imagine my life might – just might – get better than this! But you, Jehan, all you think of is how life is so horrible. Stop being so…so damn self-absorbed for once! Think about someone besides yourself! What about me, huh? I do the exact same things you do! And what about how much I…I…fucking adore you, and how much it hurts to see you hurting!” His voice broke. “Won’t you get it?” Courfeyrac sobbed. “You stupid, stupid little poet!” He sank to his knees.

 

Jehan’s eyes _widened_. It was as if someone had put oil on the sedentary cogs in his brain. They began to turn slowly, and his mind filled with images of Courfeyrac: Courf offering the last of their food to him, even though he hadn't eaten in at least two days; Courf punching a “client” in the face for being a little too rough with Jehan; both of them cuddled together on the couch with Courf looking depressed and, when questioned, shrugging it off.

 

Of course.

 

Of…course.

 

Jehan sank to his knees as well, grabbing Courf’s hands in his own. Tears filled his eyes and he grabbed Courf in a bone-crushing hug.

 

Did this mean life might be okay?


End file.
